


Don't Coddle Me

by islandgirl_246



Series: Just You and Me [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actor Stiles Stilinski, Angst, Arguments, Lawyer Laura Hale, Lawyer Peter Hale, M/M, make-up sex, mentions Cora Hale, mentions Scott McCall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 10:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11250996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl_246/pseuds/islandgirl_246
Summary: He woke up naked.Not a stitch of clothing on his frame and in a bed that smelled like rose oil.Peter sat bolt upright and cried out. His head throbbed most viciously. Looking around at the cheap blue sheets and a red sequinned dress hung up on the back of the door facing him, he groaned. This was not good.Stiles immediately flashed to mind. Soooo not good.





	Don't Coddle Me

**Author's Note:**

> This got a hold of me today in a workshop, believe it or not, and I just had to come home and write. It's after midnight, I'm starving, need to shower, but here you go - another update.

Stiles glanced at his phone yet again. Still nothing.

He knew he should have been concentrating on learning his lines for the next scene. They’d already been recording for eight hours, with just a few short breaks, one of which was for lunch and again when his inattention had almost caused a mishap on set. He needed to get his head in the game but he couldn’t. During each break the first thing he’d done was get his assistant Hayden to bring him his phone to check for messages or missed calls, although Hayden would have alerted him if he’d received either. He was bugging out, but he couldn’t help it. This wasn’t like Peter.

He rolled his eyes and swore at himself. Why was he even worried? It wasn’t like Peter owed him to take the call. He was sure if the man was lying in a ditch or worse that someone would have told him. At the very least it would have been all over social media by now and the alerts on his phone would have told him there was news about Peter out there somewhere. Someone would have been celebrating his demise, no doubt, with the number of enemies Peter made on a daily just walking into and out of a coffee shop, much less anything else.

 _So, cut it out, Stiles, you have work to do_ , he scolded himself.

“CUT!” the director yelled down the megaphone startling Stiles out of his daydreaming to realise his co-star was looking at him with her face set in a little moue of irritation. “Take 10 everybody. Stilinski, my office NOW!”

Stiles cringed, blinked, then showed a toothy grimace. He deserved to be called out. He knew his performance and especially his attention was less than stellar and they’d only been shooting for a week. This kind of apathy usually did not set in for a couple months, and here he was, fresh out the gates causing problems.

It wasn’t like they’d fire him, he sighed as he dragged his feet on the way to the trailer/office; he knew his worth. But damn, he was in for quite an ass-kicking. He braced himself as he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Ok, what the fuck is going on, Stilinski? Your head is just not here today. Your lines are lacklustre; your movements are distracted and lazy; I’ve full mind to pull you from the set today but all that means is that I’d be too fucking far behind when we resume to justify any cost increases so early in the game. So, what’s going on and how do I fix it?” the director asked as soon as the door clicked and they were alone.

“Sorry, Norman,” Stiles said with feeling, meaning it. Norman was good people. “I’ll do better I promised. I just need to make a quick call to take care of a personal matter and then I swear I’m all yours. Full 100% there,” Stiles clasped palms together, brow furrowed with pleading.

“You’ve got 5 minutes, Stilinski. I’ll dry run Alisha’s scene with Michael again, but then I expect you to be present, Stiles, committed or you won’t leave me much choice.”

Stiles exhaled, “I’ll be all there, promise!” he nodded vigorously.

As Norman slipped out of the trailer, Stiles dialled a familiar number, and just like it had the eight previous times, it went straight to voicemail this time too. He swore vilely and dialled another number by heart.

“Mr. Hale’s office. This is Erica.”

“Erica, I’ve been trying to find Peter since lunchtime. Is he still in court? It’s already after 3 there. Shouldn’t the case be wrapped up already?” Stiles asked in a rush, feet tapping as he tried not to interrupt the woman on the other end. Erica hated that.

“Hey, Stiles.” her voice sounded tired, and immediately he knew something was up.

“What’s happened?”

“He lost, Stiles, and he’s not taking it well. He disappeared after court and is refusing to answer anyone’s calls, not even Laura’s. And we’ve tried all the usual places to track him down, but no luck.”

Stiles groaned. “How’s the family taking it?”

“Surprisingly well. Mr. Benedict said he knew it was a long-shot anyway but was hopeful when Peter actually took the case. I don’t know Stiles, I really thought he could win it, but this has hit him hard you know, because . . .”

“. . . Because of Cora.” Stiles finished when Erica trailed off. “Find him for me, will you. If I can’t answer my phone leave a message, or something. I’ll return the call as soon as I get done with the set. Tell him I need to talk to him.”

“You think that’ll work?” Erica sounded like she was fighting not to let the hope bleed into her voice.

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. I gotta go or Norman’s gonna have my spleen for dinner. Just find him, please.”

“I’ll try.” It sounded like Peter’s assistant was nodding in understanding on the other end.

Stiles hung up and just sat there for a few moments, until a soft knock sounded on the trailer door and Hayden peeked in. “You need to get back, Stiles.”

He shook himself. “Yea.”

“You ok?” she frowned.

“I will be.” He swallowed. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Hayden gave him one last probing look and nodded.

Stiles gave himself and shake and a stern talking to. He couldn’t afford to screw things up, either here or with Peter, and one way of doing that was exactly what he was doing – his lack of focus because of Peter, and his intense focus on Peter.

What had changed? To his knowledge, absolutely nothing. Since when was he the clingy type? It wasn’t even like it was affecting his sex life. The sex was still as hot as ever – more so the night before he left than at any point before. _They were in completely different states, for Pete’s sake!_ He scoffed at the inadvertent pun. He needed to get it together.

 ** _Give yourself a break here_** , he muttered to himself. **_It’s not every day Peter goes off the grid like this. You’re right to be worried, just . . . just tone it down a bit. Ok? Or he’ll grill your ass about this when you find him. Ok._** Convinced he had himself back firmly in hand, he shook his limbs out as he stood. **_Ok. Let’s do this._**

++++++

Peter downed another vodka. He only drank vodka when he wanted to get drunk very fast, and today was that kind of a day.

He felt like shit and if he felt like shit, it was because he deserved to. He’d told the Benedicts he could win this. Had cockily smiled at 12-year-old Anna and told her yes, he would get her the treatment she needed. He’d allowed that family to place their faith and trust in him and had gone in there like the arrogant bastard he was, and lost.

And it wasn’t that he’d lost that had hit him so hard. It was the fact that he’d lost this particular case. The one that he told himself he wouldn’t lose because he had to do something for the family that had been all but wiped out by doctors’ visits, humungous bills and Anna’s increasing debilitation. The mouthy little tyke had trusted him. She’d told him she didn’t want her mom crying anymore, or her father to look so worried and tired all the time and Peter had been sure, oh so sure that he could force the hospital to pay. He’d make up for Mr. Benedict’s lost job because of repeated excuses to leave work to attend to his wife and daughter’s needs. He would prove the hospital’s action was what set the stage for the tragedy that followed. How could it all have gone so wrong?

He took another hit of the vodka and glanced around in the non-descript dive he’d somehow stumbled into. He had a vague idea of where he was, but it wasn’t anywhere he’d been before. It wasn’t like this was a usual haunt of his or anything, but it was his only way to escape those he knew would seek him out.

“Hey there, want some company” he glanced up, and just then someone opened a door to the outside and the mere shimmer of the sequins on the obviously cheap dress almost blinded him. He shied away before glancing back at the intruder in annoyance.

The face was dark, young, fresh, but weary; the dress red – bright red, as was the lipstick. She wore some cloying rose water scent that alone was enough to have dissuaded him from even considering her as a potential anything, and that was even if he was that desperate. He opened his mouth to give a scathing reply. _Did her mother know she was out here, doing this? Did she even have a mother?_ He wasn’t in the mood for sympathy or company and certainly not a cheap fuck from jailbait. He wanted to brood in peace. But even in his haze, something in her eyes stayed his tongue.

There was a vulnerability in her gaze that in his current state, hit him like a hammer to the gut. Instead the hazel orbs, framed by a platinum blond wig, reminded him of another sharp hazel-tinted stare that was perpetually tinged with pain. That look was why he was here, and just then he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t.

“No, thank you.” As he slanted her another look, he saw her lips tilt slightly in what he would swear under ordinary circumstances was relief and maybe even thanks. God, he was so far gone that he was seeing things that weren’t there. _Why would a hooker thank him for refusing her wares?_ It didn’t make sense. This was her livelihood.

As she turned to walk away, he knew, clearly he wasn’t drunk enough. He ordered a second bottle.

++++++

Erica pressed the line that dialled Laura directly.

“Anything?” Laura answered immediately. She was beginning to worry. It was approaching 6 p.m. and they had not seen or heard from Peter all day.

“Nothing. I’ve alerted Derek and he’s asked the guys from the Precinct to be on the look-out. So far he’s not in any of his usual bars, not in the penthouse, hospital, nor any holding cell. I can’t think of anywhere else he’d go other than to try to drink himself into a hole.”

Laura sighed. “Ok, go home, Erica.”

“I’ve left a message at the apartment. If he turns up, someone will contact me.”

“That’s enough. Go home. If Peter doesn’t want to be found tonight, we won’t find him. Give him the night to lick his wounds and if he doesn’t turn up tomorrow, we’ll deal with it then.” Laura said tiredly. Sometimes she felt like the mother, not that she begrudged him after everything he’d done for her. It was just that he tried so hard not to feel anything, that when something like this happened, when one slipped through, it set them all back when it crashed and burned. And little Annalise Benedict had certainly slipped through.

“Stiles called three times.”

And there was the other one with the potential to go very bad, very quickly. They were both such idiots and so determined to keep it purely carnal. She just hoped the young man knew what he was doing.

“I’ll take care of Stiles. Go on home.”

Erica wanted to ask. She wanted to ask Laura if she was ok. If this reminder of Cora had left her shaken the way it had obviously left Peter reeling, but she couldn’t. So she simply said, “Goodnight, Laura.”

“Goodnight, and thanks Erica.”

“Anytime.”

++++++

Stiles hung up and sat in the dark for a long while – just thinking. He didn’t know what to do about this. He’d avoided two calls from Scott so far in favour of dialling and redialling Peter. By now he must have called the man more than 20 times.

 ** _Ridiculous!_** He sneered, seriously pissed at himself. When had he become this desperate thing? And over a dick. Admittedly a gorgeous, well-endowed and seriously gifted dick. But a dick nonetheless.

He was going to bed – alone, unfortunately, but Laura was right; it was no use worrying about the man who didn’t want to be found, at least not tonight. And Stiles had some thinking to do.

++++++

He woke up naked.

Not a stitch of clothing on his frame and in a bed that smelled like rose oil.

Peter sat bolt upright and cried out. His head throbbed most viciously. Looking around at the cheap blue sheets and a red sequinned dress hung up on the back of the door facing him, he groaned. This was not good.

Stiles immediately flashed to mind. Soooo not good.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice said, and he swung quickly again, immediately regretting the decision the moment a drill attacked his brain and brought water to his eyes. “Here, take this. It’ll help with the headache.” She moved close and he realised she was wet and barely covered by a towel; apparently just fresh from a shower. She held out a closed fist to him and shook it when he took too long to respond.

She plopped two pills in his hand and held out a glass of water to accompany. “Advil,” she continued, when he still didn’t break voice.

He placed the pills on his tongue and gulped the water, being very careful not to jolt his brain more than he needed to. Where the fuck was he anyway and how the hell did he end up here? What exactly happened last night?

Peter’s eyes scoured the young woman who turned away, dropped the towel and rummaged in a drawer to underwear and what looked like a large T-shirt. He just hoped she was older than she looked. Much to his chagrin, he dragged a nearby sheet over his groin to cover himself; although, truth be told it was probably already too late. If he could just get his brain to concentrate.

He was sure he could find a way out of this without being charged with statutory rape, although intoxication was by no means an acceptable defence. The judge would probably throw the book at him just to make a statement, an example of him, and he would deserve it. Guilt over his inability to satisfactorily defend one minor and he’d ended up in bed with another. God help him. Laura would have his nuts, that was for sure. As for Stiles, heavens only knew what the young man would do or think. For sure his people wouldn’t want him anywhere near a convicted rapist.

He must have made some sound aloud because the now clothed ‘minor’ turned to look at him, shaking her head at him with a look that could only be called pitying. “Nothing happened, you know that right?”

Peter went dizzy with relief. At his expression she laughed. She was really pretty when she laughed. He could see how, beyond the perverts that obviously paid for her attentions, she could make considerable money at this.

“How old are you?”

Her eyebrows went up and she laughed again. _Really pretty._ “Older than I look, and legal,” she grinned and walked to the door, pulling it open. “Your clothes are on the chair over there,” she indicated with a smirk. _Definitely pretty._ Maybe if she’d get rid of that god-awful scent she wore . . .

“If nothing happened, how’d I get naked?”

She shrugged. “You seemed to want to, and hey, I am human after all. A good show it was too, right before you passed out.” She stepped out of the room on the last word and Peter eased himself from the sheets in the direction of his now crushed and distinctly not-nice-smelling suit.

He slowly made his way to the door she’d disappeared out of. He found her in a very tiny kitchen and before he could utter another word, she gestured, “Sit!” He was too weak and aching to argue.

The sizzling told him she was frying something, and in moments he could smell the bacon.

“So, vodka’s the poison of choice when one tries to kill himself?”

“What? I wasn’t trying to  . . .”

“If you say so, but three bottles? Frankie was scared you’d end up with blood poisoning and he’d have to deal with the body, or at the very least arrested.”

“Three bottles?” Peter frowned. _Really?_

“Well, maybe two-and-a-quarter.” She gestured again, and he saw indeed there was a near full bottle of the sin on the counter near the stove – if one could call the miniature dollhouse appliance she was cooking on a stove.

He looked around for the first time, taking in the circumstances of his “host”. His perusal seemed to amuse her. “It’s small, but comfortable. And I can afford it,” she defended, but without anger. “I’m Lulu, by the way.”

“Real or stage name?” he asked, and the smirk was back.

“Loretta. Not exactly a name that conjures up thoughts of sex, is it?” she moved around the small area, fetching what, he had no idea.

“So instead you choose the name of a teenager from a 1967 high school flick with racial subtexts.” His eyes raked over her olive skin.

She laughed outright this time. “One of my favourite movies.” She dropped a plate with eggs, bacon and pancakes in front of him. “I always thought Sidney Poitier was one of the sexiest men of all time. Eat. It’ll help your head.”

He looked at her sceptically, both for the Poitier comment and the plate, before accepting the fork she offered. She joined him, sitting down and digging in.

“How’d I get here and do you have coffee?”

“Only instant, and I don’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

He frowned at her. She had him at a distinct advantage here. “I offered you a drink last night to help the sobering process and you turned up your nose when I said it was instant.” Her lips twitched.

“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who makes a living on the street.” The instant the words came out, he wished he could call them back. The light died out of her eyes and she went quiet, eyes down on her plate as she ate quietly. His stomach burned, and not for too much vodka from the night before.

“The only reason I’m not kicking you out on your ass for that remark is because Anna probably wouldn’t like it.” The fork clattered to the half-eaten plate as she stood, while his heart tried to run away from him.

She walked over the sink. He stared at her back, unsure of if he could move. The tap turned on and seconds later he heard a click. She’d put on a kettle. No doubt she was making instant coffee, and he’d drink it even if it choked him.

Lulu took her seat again and looked him dead in the eyes. “She’s my baby sister.” Peter swallowed hard.

“When you approached . . .”

“Yeah,” she interrupted him. “I knew who you were. I followed you from the court house. I wouldn’ta charged if you’d said yes.” Her eyes fell again. All the joy was gone from them.

“I didn’t know . . .”

“That they had another daughter?” she shrugged, nonchalance at its best. “They don’t really talk about me much. Think I kinda broke their heart. When Anna got sick, I knew they couldn’t afford my tuition any more. Not with her care, especially after the insurance ran out,” she told, eyes firmly on her plate. “They wouldn’t divert the funds, even though we all knew they couldn’t afford not to, so I quit school. Took odd jobs and sent the money home. But, this pays more.”

Peter felt like his heart was caving in on itself. “I thought I could win.”

“Stop that!” she said suddenly, sharply. “It wasn’t your fault. It was a long shot.” Her voice was hard, steady. “You don’t get it. We were so damn grateful someone took the case, even though we lost. You were the first one to even consider taking it. You’ll never know what that meant to Anna . . . to us.

“You can’t punish yourself like this, like last night. Anything could have happened to you last night. Your niece wouldn’t forgive you for that, and Cora doesn’t deserve it.”

Peter’s eyes went saucer wide.

“I was majoring in journalism. I know how to do research.” Another click sounded as the kettle shut off automatically. She got up and made his coffee. “Anna doesn’t want you blaming yourself. Not like this.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. Your parents won’t allow me to pay for her care.”

She scowled. “Why would they? It’s not your responsibility, Peter. Anna is our responsibility and we’ll deal with it like we’ve always done. As a family.”

“With you living like this? Doing what you do?!” his voice was harsh, angry.

“My choice. And for her I’d do it again. I know they hate it, but I can’t do nothing and we can’t take your money. You’ve done enough. Dad’s still looking for another job and something will work out. I know it will.”

“You’re all too proud!” he grated, stabbing the last piece of pancake with his fork and chewing as if it personally offended him.

“Takes one to know one.” One corner of her lips twitched. It wasn’t like the earlier grin, but it was something.

++++++

He had 34 missed calls, 11 messages. Erica, Laura, Stiles, Derek, even Isaac – the menace – had tried reaching him in the last 29 hours.

It was the last text from Erica that broke through, got him feeling something other than the despair with which he’d left Lulu’s place; and what he was feeling was resentful.

_How dare he?_

By the time Peter tiredly unlocked his door, he’d been grinding his teeth for the entire 38 minutes it took to get from Lulu’s to his building.

Billy at the door had looked at him with evident relief, before a look of uncertainty clouded that. Undoubted his feelings of ire were starting to bubble a bit. He fully expected that before he reached his apartment, a call would have been placed to Hale & Hale. In minutes he was sure to hear from Laura or Erica, or both. He was prepared for the reaming he would get for disappearing for more than 24 hours.

He finally allowed himself to feel a little remorse for what he knew Laura and Derek were probably also going through. But he just couldn’t think about Cora right now; he was still mad.

He closed his door, shedding his jacket where he stood and yanking off cufflinks

“About damn time! I’m horny.”

 _Stiles?! What the hell was he doing in his apartment?_ “What are you doing here?” Peter questioned, irate.

Stiles paused. “Looking for you. What else would I be doing here?”

“How’d you get in?”

Stiles raised brows as if he was being ridiculous. “Well, it just so happens that your doorman is a fan, a huge fan. I autographed a few things for his sons.” Stiles waited, sensing a storm brewing. He should have expected this reaction. Peter could be territorial about his work. He waited for it and sure enough . . .

“You had no fucking right!”

“To sign autographs for your doorman?” Stiles asked, innocently, deliberately obtuse.

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You had no right.”

Stiles stood silently.

“You can’t just throw your money at things that have nothing to do with you.”

“Really!? Well, as you so rightly pointed out, it’s **_my_** money, therefore **_mine_** to decide what to do with and where to spend it. Besides, only one million of it so far is mine. The rest belongs to people across the globe.”

Peter blew out a harsh breath. “You know what I mean. You have no connection to this. You should have stayed out of it.”

“Peter,” Stiles pled patiently, “Anna needs medical care, therapy, treatments, and her family needs the support. Laura’s already had three job offers for Mr. Benedict. He can have his pick of what he wants to do now and in no time I’m sure they will all be back on their feet.”

“I wasn’t your fucking fight, Stiles.”

“What are you getting pissed at me for? This isn’t about whether it was my fight or not, Peter,” his voice climbed. “This is about a 12-year-old girl who shouldn’t have to live in pain the rest of her life because the judge couldn’t determine the hospital was culpable. Regardless of the outcome, the fact remains, she’s a child, in pain. I’ve donated tens of millions to hundreds of causes over the years, Peter, why not this one? And if people around the world want to help, fucking let them!”

“You should have stayed out of it!” Peter’s voice was louder. “What happens when people start to ask questions? What’s your connection to this girl? What is she to you? And to cap it all off, you fucking bribe the fucking doorman to get into my apartment. How fucking stupid is that? What do you think people are going to start saying about this, about us. Soon it’ll be all over social media – Superstar’s Secret supposed Boyfriend, and before you know it everyone and their aunt is drawing the wrong conclusion about what this is.”

“Ok, one,” Stiles ticked off on a finger “– when people ask, I heard about the case through a friend. Two – I don’t need a fucking connection to the ‘girl’ to want to help her. I’m a celebrity, we do this kinda shit all the time. Three – there isn’t a single employee manning that front desk who does not know we’ve been fucking for almost eight months. Four – since when do I give a flying fuck what anyone thinks about me and whom I happen to be fucking at any particular point in time. And five – please you insult me. Social media is my bitch. In nine hours we raised over a million dollars on it, so shut the fuck up about this and be thankful that Anna’s getting the help she needs.

“Or is this because you, the great fucking Peter Hale is not the one that did this? Is that what this is really about, because let me tell you, I am less than impressed with this reception. I fucking beg my director for 48 hours off the set, dropped off the radar to fly back to this fucking city, horny as a hound-dog and wondering if you were sick or dead in a ditch somewhere and where I could possibly get a fix,” he grabbed his crotch obscenely, “and this is the fucking response I get? Thanks, Peter!” Stiles threw the throw cushion he’d been hugging for the last seven hours at Peter’s head and stomped away into the kitchen.

Flinging open the cupboard, he took out a glass, dropped two cubes of ice in and dashed vodka and tonic water into a glass, not even caring that he’d splashed a quantity of the liquid across the counter – muttering to himself as he went.

Peter stood transfixed in the living room. _Was Stiles right? Was this a case of him wanting to be the one to save to day?_ Stiles, with just a couple posts on social media, according the Laura's voice messages, had managed to get his fan-base moving. Networks had picked up the story and within three hours the first $100,000 had been raised and people were calling Hale  & Hale to enquire about account information to donate. It had sent the firm into a frenzy to get everything set up and running so the moneys could begin coming in and the family could be alerted as to what was happening on their behalf. By 10 a.m. the superstar had been promising to match, dollar-for-dollar, whatever was raised by the end of the day.

It was now 4:29 p.m., and according to Laura, they had hit the million-dollar mark little less than half-hour ago and the counter was still going strong. He looked at Stiles then. Just looked. The younger man was angrily gulping the vodka mix, and the thought just made Peter’s stomach do a summersault. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever look at vodka the same after last night.

But he looked at Stiles. This was supposed to be just sex. They were changing the game.

“Oh fuck!” he heard Stiles moan, glass leaving his lips as his eyes surveyed Peter’s expression. “It’s just money, Peter. It doesn’t have to mean anything. A little girl needed help; I was in a position to help, so I did. For God’s sake, don’t overthink this. I’m not picking out china and dreaming of white picket fences, so calm the fuck down. All this is, is a charity donation by a bored celebrity.”

“You can’t do this every time I lose a case, you know that right?”

“Oh, fuck you! As if I did this for you!”

Peter walked forward, reached out and plucked the offensive glass from his fingers, tossing glass and contents into the sink.

“Hey! I was drinking that, asshat!”

“Well now you aren’t, child.”

“Oh fuck you!” Stiles tried to wrench his hand out of Peter’s.

“No, fuck you.” Peter said with a lascivious grin, and Stiles might or might not have chubbed a bit at the promise in Peter’s eyes.

“Is this the part where we get to have angry make-up sex?”

“If you want.”

“Oh, I want. What do you think I flew all this way for? Certainly not because you’re a broody man-child who doesn’t know how to return a fucking message.”

“Stiles, shut up.” Peter’s mouth came crashing down on his, and just out of spite, Stiles reached up and grabbed hold of his shirt, tearing the buttons from their moorings as he ripped the shirt open, silently celebrating the sound of clothing under assault. “You’re paying for that,” Peter huffed into his mouth.

“Just try to make me.”

Peter growled, scooped him up, tossed him into a fireman’s carry and marched into the bedroom. He’d think about whether or not he’d wanted to be the hero of the hour some other time. Right now he had a particularly frisky actor over his shoulder and a hard-on in his pants. One of these things was definitely going into the other.

Everything else could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a really special liking for this one. Tell me what you think.


End file.
